Reflections
by silbecoo
Summary: The last thing she wants or needs is someone to scold her for being reckless... She knows it already. She knows and yet there's a part of her that relishes the feeling of her knuckles smashing against another's unyielding bones. It's the bruises afterward that she has trouble with.


**A/** **n: From this prompt: "I'm not sure if you've done one like this before, but could you maybe do a fic where Karen has been trying to avoid Frank because she has a bruise and or cuts due to investigating too far into something and she knows Frank will get angry, however he finally catches up to her? (Your writing has given me lots of late nights by the way I can't get enough)" Thanks for the prompt nonny, i now this isn't exactly what you asked for, but it did break my writer's block and for that I am eternally grateful.**

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It's a habit she has, gazing at herself in the mirror before bed, trying to find answers in the shadows under her eyes. The bathroom feels strange after she steps out of the shower. It's warm and moist, and it feels like a time capsule straight out of her childhood. The tile here is different though, pristine and white, she focuses on that. It's futile, and there are unwelcome flashes of her father swimming in the blue depths of her eyes, an anger simmering just below the surface. It's hard to push it away, to breathe deeply and ignore what's been taken from her… what she's taken from the world.

Tonight it's even harder. Her bathroom smells like antiseptic, and there is blood coating the ceramic surface of her tiny sink. The coppery smell in the air and the sting of alcohol inside her nostrils as she swabs the cuts on her cheek carry her right back to the pink seashell tiles of her childhood. Her hands tremble with adrenaline running through them as she swabs at the scrapes along her hairline. The bright slash of red across her knuckles is a surprise under the harsh light of her bathroom. Her fingers look somewhat swollen, and she wonders if perhaps she has any broken bones. She can still hear the way her fist collided with the man's eye socket over and over, the touch of concerned samaritans pulling her off the would-be mugger lying on the sidewalk. She can't feel the pain at all, she's numb.

She curses softly, the sound of it faintly echoing in the small bathroom. There'll be a bruise down the side of her face in the morning, something she can't hide with makeup or designer sunglasses. Maybe she could feign illness, stay cooped up in her apartment for the next week or so until the marks fade. She sighs. She was reckless and stupid and she doesn't need the bevy of overprotective assholes in her life to chime in on her decision to fight back when she could have easily just let the man skitter away with her purse.

Except… she couldn't have done that. Her gun… her unregistered, illegally obtained, handgun… had been in the purse and she wasn't about to be the reason some kid got his brains blown out after getting in a petty argument. She'd seen too many sobbing mothers and young friends with thousand yard stares.

She closes her eyes, pushing away the feeling bubbling inside of her. Exhaustion will settle over her soon enough, she'll crash through the precarious scaffolding holding her up, and with any luck her dreams will be a silent black oblivion.

There's a loud cracking noise coming from her bedroom window, or it seems loud anyway. Her senses are turned up, and the noise makes her jump, one hand flailing against the bottle of alcohol sitting on the edge of the bathroom counter. It spills everywhere, impossibly cold liquid splashing against her bare toes. It's just Frank, she tells herself. Although why that should be of any comfort is a mystery.

She ties her robe and darts out of the cocoon of warmth in her bathroom and into her chilly apartment. The change in temperature sends a cascade of goosebumps across her skin. It's dark, and her eyes haven't adjusted, but she moves swiftly across the space from memory, reaching the window in a few seconds. Better to meet him in the dark anyway. Perhaps he won't notice the angry red marks on her skin, or her puffy eye socket.

She snaps at him as she lifts the sash. "One of these days you're gonna break the glass, Frank. Slamming your knuckles against the pane like you're trying to wake up the whole neighborhood."

He grunts in response, climbing through the window like a boy sneaking into his girlfriend's bedroom. The thought comes unbidden, and she has to stifle the maniacal urge to laugh. She knows it would sound like a witch's cackle echoing in her apartment, and she's not too sure it wouldn't turn into a pathetic sob. The residual effects of raging out have her more than a little rattled. Silence is better.

Karen feints away from him, slipping through her dark apartment toward the kitchen, grateful for the shadows. "Coffee?" she asks, already halfway to making a fresh pot.

"Always."

There is one disadvantage in the dark. Frank is a silent companion, his tread soft when he wants it to be, and Karen doesn't even notice that he's standing directly behind her until she pulls her head out of the fridge. She nearly drops the carton in her hand with a squeak, but Frank is quicker, catching the thing before it spills across the kitchen floor.

He pushes the fridge door open wider, watching as the cold blue light illuminates her face. "Karen." He growls her name, concerned and chiding at the same time.

She ignores him, retrieving the cream and pushing the fridge door shut with her hip as if nothing is wrong. "Do you want your coffee to go, or are you staying for a bit?"

She knows this game can't go on much longer, but it's still a surprise when he flicks on the kitchen light. She squints instinctively, pain shooting across her eye socket. "Shit!" The curse comes out involuntarily.

"What the hell, Page?" His question is soft, barely more than a whisper in the quiet. She can tell he wants to be stern, but the look on his face is pained. "Who did this?"

A fresh wave of guilt crashes over her. She doesn't want him to have to deal with this. There are too many other things he needs to be worrying about, and really this has nothing to do with any of them. But he's closing the space between them, his fingers gently slipping underneath her chin so he can angle her face toward the light. His jaw clenches, brow furrowing. She can see the gears turning in his brain, wondering what piece of shit he's going to have to kill tonight.

She starts to pull away from him, reaching up to remove his hand. Instead her fingers curl around his wrist, feeling his steady pulse against her skin. "Some punk. He's in lockup downtown with a broken nose and a fractured orbital socket. He got way more than he bargained for, trust me."

"A mugger?"

She nods. "He cornered me on the way home, shoved me up against the brick and snarched my purse. I… I couldn't let it go, Frank. My gun…" She leaves out the part where she couldn't stop wailing on the man after she had him on the ground, the part where the responding officer looked at her with a wariness akin to fear.

She moves, actually pulling away this time. He holds onto her hand though, inspecting the damage. Her knuckles are purple and swollen, and they're beginning to feel a little stiff. "Christ, Page, this is gonna hurt like shit tomorrow."

His reaction isn't what she expects. He's not chastising or angry. His calloused hands are gently probing her injuries, and there's a strange little quirk at the corner of his mouth. Suddenly she's deflated, the exhaustion she'd been expecting crashing into her all at once, she sags into him, arms slipping up around his neck in an unexpected hug.

It's not what they're used to, some invisible boundary being swept away in a moment of weakness. Karen's walls are crumbling, and she's not sure why. His arms slowly circle her waist, holding her to him. He's quiet, and they stand like statues in the glowing light of her kitchen. She whispers in his ear. "Damn it, Frank, say something. It was stupid, and scary. I shouldn't have chased after him. I know it, but I'm just so fucking tired of people looking at me and thinking they can push me around. I'm so tired."

He shifts, withdrawing his embrace, scooping her up before she can protest. It's a bridal carry, and she feels the damn hysteria from before, this time muted in the back of her mind. She wants to protest but God he's warm, and she's so tired and sore, and for the first time since the attack she feels unquestionably safe. "C-can you stay?" Silent is the rest of her plea, the feeling that she might just fly apart if she's left to her own devices tonight.

He lays her down on the bed, slipping beside her on top of the coverlet, boots and all. "Page, your face… and hands… that's all the damage, right?"

She thinks there might be a faintly purple bruise just under her left ribs if the twinging when she breathes is any indication, but she knows that's not what he's talking about. "That's all."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

He sighs, pulling her closer to him so she can settle back against his chest. She begins to drift, her breathing syncing with his slower rhythm, warmth seeping into her limbs. Just as she's floating away, her dreams soft and blue, she hears him quietly, almost to himself, his arms tightening around her. "Prick won't be safe in lockup for long."


End file.
